


garden of rot.

by scarlet_mangata



Category: Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye egos- Fandom
Genre: Demon!Anti, Gen, and really what did you expect from anti, and the second person pov, bc chase is not in a good place and anti is a bastard, heads up: this is going to get Darker and ill be adding tags and warnings as chapters progress, uhh: author makes gratuitous use of breaking the fourth wall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:02:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26396104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlet_mangata/pseuds/scarlet_mangata
Summary: Think of something close to you, that you've given your heart to. Then tuck it away, and follow us down a twisting road where there's no real end in sight; only the whispers of long abandoned wishes floating like an oilslick. When Chase walks into a demon's pocket of the forest, searching for a way to bring his family and life back, he has nothing to lose; but there's always a price to walk back out. If he doesn't get lost, that is.
Kudos: 2





	garden of rot.

Friends, as I tell you this story, I have to ask two favors. Okay? Good. 

The first thing I want to ask: think of something that you hold close to you. Something that you would raze the world to ashes to see safe. Think of something that shines brighter than the sun.  Then tuck it away, close to your heart. Remember it, but don’t breathe a word about it. Don’t think about the hell you’d rain down if it was torn from you.  Just remember it, okay? Remember it, and remember that most everybody’s given their heart to something else, whether a person or not, and that when a heart is given, there’s no taking it back, even if it’s making you bleed. 

The second thing: think of something that makes you  **you.** The edges of the vessel that hold you. Think of what it looks like, why it looks like that. Don’t forget it. Hold each edge and curve close.

They won’t forget it. 

It’s not as much of a blessing as you think it is. 

Remember what I asked you. 

Anyways- I won't hold you up, friends. 

There was someone like you, once, you know. A man, 29 years of age, looking for answers in every story that someone peddled his way.  He’d given his heart, so many years ago, to a sweet woman with a fiery tongue to match his, two stars falling into a perfect orbit. Remember who you’ve given your heart to, and then remember that he’d given his heart to this woman. Tuck that note away for later, and follow us down the sidewalk, after this man, 29 years of age, with a cap askew on his head, and more sorrow to his name than coin. 

Do you see where he’s walking? No? Let me paint that image for you. He's walking down a sidewalk, incongruous from the ten thousand other sidewalks that snake up and down this city of dread.  The city is beginning to end, you see. There is a forest waiting, trees standing guard above rows of underbrush, and it is this forest that he is counting upon. 

...Let me take a moment to digress, here. Friends, there’s something that you should always be thinking about. Do you trust yourself? No? Do you trust these words more than you trust yourself?

I should hope not. 

See, friends, he is not counting upon the forest, he is counting upon the ashen little playground in the forest.  You’ve heard songs, stories, all that about those little pockets of reality, haven’t you? Where wishes come true, where demons wait at the crossroads? T here's one such little pocket sitting right on the inside of that forest, a dumpster of all the oily little dreams and discarded fragments of hope that festered enough for demons to come crawling in and hollow into their own little nest. 

Now, friends, I must say: I wouldn't recommend that you go knocking on those nests. When you have something to lose, they smell it on you and that’s sweeter than any of the despair that they can wring out of you. You’ll be shucked faster than an oyster over fire. 

But our friend Chase Brody here, do you remember what I said? He has an empty, empty place where his heart should be and more sorrow to his name than coin.  There is nothing more to wrest from him.  And so he is going to go knock on their door, and hope that they let him step onto that ashen little playground. 

But that’s not my story to tell. That’s his. 

And for him to tell his story, he has to be asked first. 

So why don’t we ask him?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! If you've made it through the piece, then first off; thank you so much. This is just an introduction to a very experimental piece, but I do hope that you enjoyed it :)   
> Poor Chase. What a rough beginning, and we haven't even touched on his story.  
> If you'd like to scream at me some more, you can find me on Tumblr at scarlet-mangata, where I'd be more than happy to talk about this!


End file.
